I asked my father to write my wedding speech before he died

• My father told me that the doctors had discovered a tumor and that he only had six months to live.
• I was 22 and still hadn’t lost any family members, so it was a shock.
• He wrote my wedding speech and I didn’t find it until after he died.

I remember the moment my father told me had six months to live like it was yesterday. I was stretched out on the overstuffed sofa bed he had set up in the corner of his log cabin at the end of the garden. On a warm, quiet Sunday morning in mid-March, I took a break while the olive goldcrest chirped in the nearby tree.

When I looked outside I saw my father with two cups of tea in his hand. He went into the hut, our dog Monty trotting behind him. We often spent the morning like this: Drink tea and chat to escape the burden of everyday life. This time, however, there was something heavy in him.

He smiled nervously as he walked over to me and handed me a cup. “Lar, we need to talk,” he said, standing at the edge of the bed. “I received news. It’s not good.”

He was given 6 months to live

He sat next to me; my heart was racing. I remember how sick I felt.

“That means I have a tumor spreads from my intestines. Although we can try chemotherapy, it is fatal. “The doctors gave me a six-month prognosis,” he said.

Whatever came next was a foggy, confusing blur hysterical cryingShortness of breath and pure panic.

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This is one of those moments in life that nothing can prepare you for. At 22, I still had all four grandparents that I seemed to be blessed with health and longevity. The closest thing I had was my turtle Luigi when I was 10 years old. I had no prior resilience to draw on to process this catastrophic news.

It felt like hours later that I was in tears. My throat hurt from the whining. Wrapped in my father’s comforting arms, I blurted out, “Dad, that’s you.” I won’t walk myself down the aisle once.”

My father had similar experiences with my three other siblings – all of whom reacted differently to the news. Over the next week or so, that was my way of processing Write in a journal to let go of the outbursts of pain I experienced. Looking ahead, I forced myself to think about what I needed from my father before he died. Finally there was time not on our site.

I kept thinking about my hypothetical wedding day

Every time I sat down to write, I returned to the vivid and hypothetical image of my wedding day. It’s as if the universe wanted me to come to terms with the heartbreaking idea that my father wouldn’t betray me. This is something I romanticized from a young age. A vision that I undoubtedly believed would come true.

It hit me one sleepless night. I wanted to create a keepsake where my father and I could write letters together, share memories, and process our feelings. I found a worn old notebook and wrote him my first letter. I sobbed as the sunrise slowly peeked through my bedroom curtain. The very first thing I asked him at the end of the letter, in tear-stained ink, was if he could write his wedding speech for me. I left the letter in the cabin the next day.

Dad responded lovingly, but not the speech part. Months passed and Dad’s health deteriorated. As expected, his body rejected the chemo. There was no sign of a speech and I accepted that perhaps that was asking too much. It got to the point where he began to lose control of his limbs and could no longer speak, so our letters to each other became increasingly sparse.

“That’s okay,” I thought to myself. “It was brave of me to ask.”

I found the speech he wrote for me after his death

It was a hot summer morning, the day my father died in the care of our local hospice. He had been there for three weeks – in severe pain, stabilized by lots of morphine – surrounded by his family. He literally clung to his life before surrendering peacefully alongside those he loved most.

Later that day, as we navigated through the flood of peace lilies, “sorry for your loss” messages, and a pile of homemade lasagna that we had no appetite for, we came across his will in a pile of his belongings. We opened it together as a family at the kitchen table. Between pages of financial details and funeral wishes was a folder of white envelopes addressed to each of us – his wife and four children. My front says “Lar…”. On the back: “Your wedding speech.”

To this day, the envelope sits sealed at the bottom of my “dad box” along with the notebook we shared, photo albums of memories, and a collection of swimming medals that I would one day show his grandchildren.

The fact that I can pass on this precious feeling on what I consider to be the most special day of my life is invaluable to my grieving process – even if it does not make up for the fact that he will not be physically present by my side on my wedding day.

I often sit alone in his hut and enjoy the rays of sunshine glittering through the trees. I hold a cup of tea and feel comforted by the intuitive knowledge that he will always be with me in some form.

Over four years later, I feel glimpses of the peaceful moments we spent in that garden. Before our lives were turned upside down. I am incredibly grateful for these moments.

Lara Rodwell is the author of Guided Grief Journal “From Prognosis to Peace: Managing Grief through Gratitude, Discovery, and Healing.”inspired by the notebook she shared with her father. Available from Amazon and other booksellers.